


the essence of love and failure.

by redhoods



Series: and now it's got its hands inside you. [2]
Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Self Harm, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), void reverend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: She sits in the chair across from him, “Reverend cut service early,” she says, to the point, “stopped right in the middle of a sentence and walked out.”He stands, tucking his gun away, “What was he talking about?”That makes her pause and her eyebrows draw, “Christmas service?” She settles on, “He was talking about doing the first communion in Deadwood.” She taps her knuckles on the table, “Just closed his Bible and walked out the back door without saying anything or taking it with him.”
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: and now it's got its hands inside you. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582855
Comments: 9
Kudos: 103





	the essence of love and failure.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a follow up to [hold back all my dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739588). just some good ol' matthew feelings for you on this day. 
> 
> i guess i'm turning this into a series? don't have a whole lotta ideas for it, but we'll see what happens.
> 
> the self harm is just a brief instance and unintentional.
> 
> _Let's say you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's  
>  got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure._  
> — _you are jeff_ , 13, richard siken.

Winter sweeps in and Matthew breaks.

Clayton doesn’t know what causes it, in the end, but he’s been half expecting it. They all sort of have, waiting to see how long it took before the weight of the shadows became too much for Matthew to bare. The nightmares have been getting worse as of late, but he’s the only one that knows that.

Service should still be on when Katy comes sweeping back into the Bella Union, right to where Clayton’s sitting in the corner with his gun in his lap, keeping an eye out. It’s their arrangement, he keeps an eye on the place so she can attend service.

And she should be still there, but she doesn’t falter, heads right for him, “Clayton,” she greets, which gets his attention immediately.

Usually, it’s Mr. Clayton, just to make his lips twist.

“Katy,” he returns, dread curling.

She sits in the chair across from him, “Reverend cut service early,” she says, to the point, “stopped right in the middle of a sentence and walked out.”

He stands, tucking his gun away, “What was he talking about?”

That makes her pause and her eyebrows draw, “Christmas service?” She settles on, “He was talking about doing the first communion in Deadwood.” She taps her knuckles on the table, “Just closed his Bible and walked out the back door without saying anything or taking it with him.”

“Thank you,” he says and doesn’t wait for more, walks out of the building, purposefully striding right for the church.

No one tries to stop him.

\-----

It’s fucking cold out, snow steady falling and the church isn’t much better when he steps into the building. The candles and lanterns are still lit from when he helped Matthew before service, but there’s no one inside.

Matthew’s bible is on the pulpit when he passes it, but his rosary isn’t.

He steps out the back door, onto the little porch, and Arabella is standing there, wrapped up in a thick coat, she doesn’t glance his way, “Someone’s getting Miriam and Aloysius,” she says and he follows her gaze out.

There’s a thread of shadow across the snow, stretching out in the direction of the graveyard.

It’s nothing more than a black splotch against the surrounding white snow.

“I’m going,” he says and takes the first step out into the snow.

“Take this,” and when he looks, she’s holding out a coat that he realizes is Matthew’s. Her expression is tight with concern but also determination, and he nods at her as he slides the coat on himself.

He draws a deep breath, “I’ll bring him back,” he tells her with a nod, turns back to the trail.

She sighs deeply behind him, “Bring him to Miriam’s,” she says to his back, “we’ll make stew and get the place warmed up.”

The shadow rises up to greet him and he doesn’t reply as the thread loops like a band around his wrist, doesn’t pull tight, just hangs there like a reminder as he trudges through in the direction of the cemetery. Darkness is spreading from it, stretching out further, growing bigger as he draws closer.

They don’t part for him as he reaches the edges of the black, too dark for him to see into them, through them, but the band around his wrist goes taut, pulling him in, and he doesn’t try to resist. There’s only darkness, but he can still feels the cold, the crunch of snow under his boots, can hear his own footsteps, can hear his own voice when he calls out, “Matty?”

It’s not like the farmhouse.

The shadows don’t part suddenly, don’t give way.

He wonders if Matthew is even in control of them.

“Matty?” He calls again.

Then stops, standing still, as quiet as he can as he listens. Even the shadow around his wrist stops pulling him, still taut, tight enough for him to feel its presence.

He hears it then, doesn’t recognize the sound at first, can’t pull his worried mind together enough until he follows the sound and it grows louder. Crying. Giant, hitching sobs, and worry goes tight like a vice around his heart and Clayton shoves back his panic as best he can as he trudges towards it.

Smacks into a gravestone, then another, swears viciously.

The band around his wrist pulls, drawing him around the stones and the sobbing grows louder.

Until suddenly, there’s a break, a circle of space with no shadow at all, just white snow on the ground and in the middle of it: Matthew.

He’s on his knees in the snow, still in his robes, surrounded by nothing but a wall of shadows out five feet from him. Shadows and Clayton, though he doesn’t seem to have realized that he’s no longer alone. The shadow unloops from his wrist, drifts away to join the walls around them, and Clayton steps closer.

His chest feels too tight to breathe almost and he doesn’t try speaking again as he sinks to his knees in the snow next to Matthew. As much as he doesn’t want to startle him, has learned that sneaking up on Matthew is never a good idea, he still presses his palm against Matthew’s back, feels the quake of him under his palm.

Matthew doesn’t even jump.

“Matty,” he tries quietly, sliding his palm until he can curve his arm around Matthew, “Matthew,” he tries again.

Finally, Matthew reacts, tipping against him, almost knocking him over into the snow, curling against him, face against his belly. He’s still sobbing though, the sounds dragged out of him like he’s trying to stop, but doesn’t stand a chance against the influx.

Clayton cups the back of his head, shifts until he’s on his ass in the cold snow, curving his spine forward until he’s over Matthew, pressing his palm between Matthew’s shoulders, “It’s okay, Matty,” he says, touching his forehead against Matthew’s head.

And Matthew is cold, face freezing even through the layers of Clayton’s clothes and when his hands come up, fingers stiff and uncooperative as he tries to get a grasp of Clayton’s hips, they’re even colder, like he’d had them buried in the snow. He hiccups out another sob, voice slurred and hoarse when he says, “Clay,” once, then, “Clayton.”

“I know,” Clayton tells him, “let it out.”

He does.

Sobs himself out, until it’s nothing but sound and dry heaves.

Then suddenly, wrenches back away, scrambling back in the snow with a sudden ferocity and at first, Clayton is worried, scared for a brief instant, then he watches as Matthew claws at his robes, fingers still too cold to do him much good.

Or they would be, if the shadows weren’t drifting from the ends, creating something like claws that dig through the material, shredding it into tatters.

Clayton moves then, across the snow to grab at Matthew’s wrists, “Matty,” he demands, “Matty, stop,” he says again and has to put himself in Matthew’s lap to get him to stop, to get his attention, “Matty, you’re hurting yourself,” he adds quietly.

Matthew blinks at him, eyes jet then brown then jet and finally brown again.

And red, so red and puffy, face streaked with dried tear tracks.

“You hurt yourself,” Clayton says again, drawing Matthew’s hands away from his chest and the scraps of his robes and the clothes he’d had beneath them. There’s thin tracks of blood on the skin visible, beading against his white undershirt.

“Oh,” Matthew says finally, looking at his own hands, wrists still in Clayton’s grasp, and it’s like he doesn’t recognize them.

Clayton rubs his thumb against Matthew’s pulse point, feels the rapid thunder of it like a hundred horses over packed earth, “Come back to me, Matty,” he urges quietly, drawing Matthew’s hands up to press his mouth to them, meeting his gaze.

Matthew stares at him for almost too long, then at his own hands against Clayton’s lips still, and exhales loudly.

The shadows are gone all at once.

“You are worthy,” he says to Matthew then, while Matthew shudders out breaths under him, trembling as he breathes through his leftover emotions. He releases his wrists to cup his face, to make sure Matthew is looking at him, “Do you hear me, Matthew Mason? You are worthy of all the love in the world,” he says, “mine and God’s and Arabella’s and Miriam’s and Aly’s. Every soul that puts their asses on those goddamn uncomfortable pews every Sunday morning for you.”

Matthew’s breath hitches and Clayton thinks he might cry again, but his arms only slide around his waist, squeezing him against Matthew’s chest, “Thank you,” he says, voice a hoarse mess.

Clayton exhales quietly, slides his arms around Matthew’s shoulders, cupping the back of his head, “You ain’t got shit to thank me for,” he tells him, kisses the top of his head, “Except maybe freezing my ass out in this snow, you couldn’t saved this for spring?”

Matthew’s shoulders shake against him, laughter this time, “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“You do that,” Clayton replies. Then pats his shoulder, “We should go back. The others are worried and Miriam’ll kick both our asses if either of us ends up with a cold.”

It only makes Matthew squeeze tighter around him, just a quick crushing hug before he releases him.

Clayton slides off his lap, pushing himself to standing, watching quietly as Matthew does the same. He’s a mess now and they’ll have to stop and get him a change of clothes, both of them really, since Clayton’s are damp through from sitting in the snow, but he’s whole and he’s alive.

Clayton’ll take it.

He offers his hand out to Matthew, who only hesitates for mere seconds before taking it, sliding their fingers together.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [@vowofenmity](https://twitter.com/vowofenmity) on twitter.


End file.
